The Eighth of Quellë
by Moriquende
Summary: Saruman's birthday is fast approaching, and he doesn't want anyone to know....but Radagast and Grima won't let it pass without a big, cheerful, obnoxious celebration. Birthday fic for Calaquende, written in her very own AU.
1. Radagast and Grima Ponder a Problem

A/N: Since this is a birthday fic for Calaquende, I've taken the liberty of writing in her alternative universe, in which it appears that Saruman and Radagast are in some sort of ambiguous relationship (not really sexual, more domestic—think _The Odd Couple_), the War of the Ring is over but all the main characters are still hanging around Middle-earth, and Saruman has been defeated but not killed. He is just living in Orthanc and has been generally left to his own sinister devices. For a better idea, head over to Calaquende's profile and read her hilarious (albeit unfinished) stories. 'Cooking (Sinisterly) With Saruman!!' exists somewhere, I know. I'm just not sure where.

Radagast is kind of OOC, but Calaquende's Radagast is generally OOC—ridiculously cheerful, and very affectionate to Saruman, somewhat in the way an overbearing mother hen is affectionate to a chick with a bad attitude. And actually, Radagast appears so seldom in canon that we don't really _know _if that's OOC. In any case, it amuses me.

You know what? I totally don't own these characters. I don't really want them, either, except maybe Radagast, who might be fun to have over for tea from time to time.

**Radagast and Gríma Ponder a Problem**

Radagast the Brown was confused. This, he had to admit even to himself, was not such a rare occurrence. It had been nearly a year since he and Saruman had decided to live together (it would perhaps be more accurate to say that Radagast had showed up one day with all his personal belongings slung over one shoulder, and Saruman's protests had been feeble at best) and living in Orthanc was an experience often fraught with confusing circumstances and alarming goings-on.

Saruman's lifestyle choices could be rather vexing at times. It wasn't that Radagast hadn't known that prior to moving in. It was just that the abstract awareness that one's friend was breeding revolting slaves in his basement was not an adequate preparation for the shock of running into said slaves first thing in the morning on the way to breakfast. And Saruman's malevolent hangers-on—Gríma Wormtongue foremost among them—had somehow been much less disturbing before Radagast had been forced to share a bathroom with them. Radagast was still at a loss to explain what exactly Gríma did in the bath for two hours every morning. He had thought of asking once or twice, but decided that some things might be better left to the imagination.

But Saruman had been behaving strangely as of late—even for Saruman. Radagast had been wondering why for some time, which was why he had asked Gríma to join him immediately after his morning marathon bathing session to discuss it. Sometimes Gríma had a better ear for Saruman's mutterings than Radagast did, and he was hoping to induce Gríma to share whatever might be helpful.

'He hasn't been himself lately, Gríma,' Radagast sighed, filling his pipe for the third time that morning and starting on some truly prodigious smoke-rings. 'I've noticed, you know. He thinks I haven't, but I have.'

'What have you noticed?' Gríma inquired.

'Well, he's been extremely short-tempered lately…'

'Yes, well, he's usually a bit—'

'But he won't even pay any attention to me! Sometimes, when I enter the room and greet him, even when it's in my most bubbly, cheerful voice, he doesn't even hear me!'

'Are you certain he isn't just pretending not to hear you?' Gríma suggested. 'You know, the way he always does?'

'No,' Radagast said decisively. 'I am quite certain. Usually, he grunts at me, or murmurs something about what an imbecile I am, or something else of that sort. You know, pleasantries! At the very least!'

Gríma frowned, deep in thought. Now that he considered it, Saruman had gone a good long time without berating him for failing to keep the voluminous hard-bound books in his library dusted, or commenting in a snooty sort of way about the quality of Gríma's cooking. He had hoped it was just that he was becoming a better housekeeper, having been in Saruman's employ for—what was it now? —quite an interminable period of time, at any rate. Now, however, he was beginning to have second thoughts. It was a pity, too. He had been quite proud of the lemon tart he had prepared just the other week. Perhaps Saruman hadn't really liked it after all. Perhaps he hadn't even _noticed. _Gríma sighed in a hopeless sort of way.

'Gríma, are you listening to me?'

'Not especially.'

Radagast shook his head. This was the other problem with Saruman being out of sorts; Gríma was becoming completely unmanageable. 'I was _saying _that on top of everything else, just the other day, I was passing Saruman on the stairs, and I stumbled on that patch of slime between the third and fourth stories, and—by the way, Gríma, that patch could really use some attention, whenever you're thinking of it—'

_'And?' _growled Gríma.

'And I bumped into him.'

Gríma winced.

'And he said—oh, Gríma, he said—' Radagast looked as though he were about to burst into tears.

'Yes? He said?'

'He said—' Radagast paused dramatically. 'He said, _Excuse me._'

Gríma's jaw dropped.

'I know,' Radagast said. 'It was appalling.'

'Did he add anything after that?' Gríma wanted to know. 'You know, like 'you insufferable fool' or 'you insignificant minion' or something along those lines?'

'No,' Radagast said mournfully. 'He didn't. He just said my name. And he didn't even add 'the Simple' or 'the Bird-Tamer' afterwards. Just Radagast. As if he didn't even _care._'

'Well,' Gríma said. 'Well.'

'That changes things somewhat, doesn't it?'

'Yes. It does…You know, Lurtz was asking me just the other day if something was wrong with Saruman.'

'Do you know why?'

'Well, Lurtz had borrowed Saruman's staff—without asking, mind you—'

Radagast closed his eyes in horror. This was serious business.

'—yes, well, I've always thought there was something fishy about that Uruk. _Far_ too fascinated with Saruman's staff for his own good, if you ask _me_, not that anyone _does_—and Saruman found him with it—I don't even know what Lurtz was trying to do, honestly, as if he could figure out how to work it—but Saruman caught him taking it into his own chambers, and he said, 'Put it back when you're done.' That's all he said.'

_'When you're done?'_

'That's what he said. Lurtz said he might have even said 'please'.'

Radagast was speechless.

'Well, Lurtz was terrified, of course. Figured Saruman was off to devise some diabolical form of punishment for him. He tagged around after him for days trying to figure out what it was, whinging on and on about it—'aren't you going to torture me and perfect me, Master, _your _fighting Uruk-hai and all that?'—but Saruman was having none of it. Told him to go out and mind the outer gate, and said—said that maybe some _fresh air _would do him good.'

That did it, Radagast decided. Saruman had gone round the bend. Radagast knew that Saruman kept some secrets from him, but he prided himself on knowing the White Wizard fairly well, and Saruman had never, ever expressed any fondness for _fresh air _of any sort. Radagast was quite certain of _that._

'Something must be done,' Radagast announced.

Gríma did not respond.

'Don't you agree?' Radagast pressed. 'We can't possibly allow him to languish on like this. It's positively unhealthy.'

'Well…'

'Don't tell me you _prefer _him this way, Gríma.'

'You said it, I didn't.'

Radagast shook his head. 'What a positively disloyal thing to say.' It was true that Saruman's usual demeanour did not exactly inspire loyalty, but Radagast felt duty-bound to defend him anyway.

'I wonder if it has anything to do with the eighth of Quellë,' Gríma mused aloud, looking unusually thoughtful.'

Radagast frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, I was in the study, going through Saruman's personal papers the other day…'

'He's told you to stop doing that.'

'Not for a while,' Gríma objected. 'And in any case, he was busy lecturing the Uruk-hai about not making a ruckus in the middle of the night while we're trying to sleep. It took him a long time. I'm still not convinced they understand the Common Speech. In any case, the eighth of Quellë is crossed out on his calendar. In thick, black ink.'

'Sinister ink?'

'Naturally.'

Radagast got up and began to pace, coughing slightly as he did so. It was very difficult to smoke and pace at the same time. He set down his pipe quickly. 'Quellë begins tomorrow,' he thought aloud. 'That's only eight more days. I hope he isn't planning anything evil.'

'No,' Gríma disagreed. 'Evil plans always please him. We would know about them, anyway. He would have already started bragging.'

'Was there anything else written on the calendar?'

'Something in Elvish letters. I couldn't read it.'

'Bring it to me, please, Gríma.'

Gríma muttered something poisonous-sounding under his breath as he scurried from the room. Radagast ceased his pacing (it always felt unnatural, he admitted to himself) and filled his pipe again. What horrid thing could be approaching that would put Saruman out of sorts in this way? What unhappy occasion could make him so abnormally pleasant to be around?

'Here,' Gríma grunted, thrusting Saruman's desk calendar into Radagast's hands. Radagast turned to the month of Quellë and squinted at the hastily scrawled word.

He frowned—then gasped—then clapped both hands over his mouth.

'What?' Gríma growled. _'What?'_

Radagast began to laugh. He dropped the calendar onto the black marble floor and clutched at his belly. He threw his head back and guffawed for all he was worth until Gríma clapped one clammy hand over Radagast's mouth to make him stop. 'Will you knock that off? He's going to hear us! What is the _matter_ with you?'

'Oh, Gríma!' Radagast exclaimed, taking Gríma's hand away. 'Gríma, do you know what the eighth of Quellë is?'

'Of course I don't, you twit. I wouldn't have _asked _you if I—'

Radagast ignored him. He picked up the calendar and held it aloft triumphantly. 'The eighth of Quellë,' he said gleefully. 'The eighth of Quellë, my dear, disloyal, downright disconcerting Gríma—the eighth of Quellë is _Saruman's birthday._'

And for the first time in Radagast's memory, Gríma's usually dour, pallid face lit up with a devious smile.


	2. Saruman Broods in a Malevolent Manner

**Saruman Broods in a Malevolent Manner**

Saruman did not have many hobbies. It was true that he sometimes envied Radagast (the Brown, the Bird-Tamer, the Simple, as he thought of him) for always finding something to keep him busy. Whether he was off on a quest to identify the few trees remaining around Orthanc or collecting butterflies from the windowsills of the tower, Radagast was never one to sit around brooding. Indeed, Radagast spoke of brooding as though it were a distasteful thing to do, and often wondered when Saruman would stop doing it.

But Saruman had elevated brooding to an art form. He could brood anywhere, at any time. His brooding was equally as sinister on a sunny day as it was during a thunderstorm, and he was even successful at brooding when other people were in the room. He had gotten rather good at brooding malevolently in Radagast's general direction whilst Radagast was at his most chipper and cheerful. Saruman could clear a crowded room in fifteen minutes flat just by brooding. Inevitably, people (or Uruk-hai, as the case may be) would look in his direction uneasily and suddenly remember somewhere else they were supposed to be.

In fact, Saruman had become so skilled at disconcerting other people with his brooding that he rather preferred to brood in company now, rather than alone. He frowned as he glanced around his study. Where on earth was Gríma? Come to think of it, where was Radagast? Both of them had become rather accustomed to his sinister manner by now, and were harder to disconcert, but Saruman did not mind that. It presented more of a challenge.

'Where…are…they?' he murmured under his breath, cracking the door slightly and listening carefully in the stairwell for footsteps or voices. It was fairly silent, save for the incessant banging and wretched howling of the Uruk-hai trailing up the stairs from the basement. Saruman sighed. Really, he ought to have thought more carefully before creating a new race of slaves to live with him. Now that his plans for world domination had been foiled, he really didn't know what to do with them. They were useless as far as housekeeping went—especially cooking. 'They couldn't make…a soufflé…if their miserable lives depended on it,' Saruman muttered to himself, secretly pleased. _His _soufflés were (if he could say so himself) simply superb.

Saruman slammed the door to his study and stalked over to his morbid-looking desk, throwing himself dramatically into his chair. It was just as well. He wasn't in the mood for company at the moment. It was all because of the date that was quickly approaching, the date that he hoped no one else would ever find out about. He glanced over at where his desk calendar was supposed to be, but it seemed to be missing for some reason. No matter. He knew too well. 'The eighth,' he mumbled to himself. 'The worst…day…in the WHOLE…WORLD. Oh, I am beside myself. Truly, I cannot…_bear _it…' And so he continued in this vein for some time.

At least, he contented himself, no one else _knew _about it. Radagast the All-Fired Fool seemed to have forgotten entirely. But why on earth did that nitwit have to _ask_ for birthdays in the _first _place? It only reminded him that he was getting older, and that was a reminder that immortals were supposed to be able to live without. No one waltzed up to Ilúvatar and asked _Him _how old _He_ was. They simply took it for granted that he had always existed and _would _always exist. 'Just like…_I_…will,' Saruman said stubbornly. 'If those bloody Ents…will only leave me _alone._ And if Aragorn…son of blasted Arathorn…refrains from taking revenge. I could live _forever. _And _that _will show Them.' Who They were, Saruman could not say, exactly, but he spent a great deal of time thinking of things to do that would show Them.

Saruman sighed gloomily. Life always lost its flavour for him around his birthday. He hadn't abused Gríma in weeks. He had tried to be his usual sardonic self around Radagast, but he had a feeling that he had been slipping. The other day, Radagast had eaten a powdered donut over the counter and left sugar all over the kitchen—_'my _kitchen,' Saruman muttered—and he had forgotten to chastise him for days on end. Eventually Radagast had been forced to remind him.

He sighed and stretched, grimacing as he did so; the bones had been cracking especially loudly in his back lately. He supposed that was natural for someone who was several thousand years old.

'The date will pass soon enough,' he said to himself, stroking his beard slowly. 'No one need…ever know. And in time, possibly…it could happen that…_I _will forget, as well. One day…Quellë may not be such a season of dread. If only I could put it out of my head…for once.' He sighed. 'I will try.'

And on that hopeful note, he went down to wait for Gríma to serve him dinner. Perhaps Gríma would be late, and then Saruman would be able to scold him in a humiliating way. It was a very encouraging thought.


	3. Tricksy Calculations Are Made

**Tricksy Calculations Are Made**

'But I don't understand,' Gríma said abruptly. 'Aren't you Maiar immortal?'

'Well, yes,' Radagast admitted.

'Do immortal beings have birthdays? How does that even work?' Gríma scowled suspiciously at Radagast, who was looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. 'What are you blushing about?'

'We didn't have birthdays at first,' Radagast murmured. 'It was a, er, later addition. If you get my meaning.'

'I don't.'

Radagast sighed. 'It was those Elves that made me think of it, you know. They _did_ have such lovely birthday celebrations—they always invited us, and Gandalf too, and the Blue Wizards, even though they don't often come into these tales—and oh, it was simply lovely. There were dances, and fireworks, and lots of singing, and _cake, _Gríma, huge sheet cakes with hundreds and hundreds of candles…'

Gríma sniffed in a way that let Radagast know he didn't think much of candles on cake. 'An odd Elvish tradition. I don't need my dessert set on fire. Especially not on my birthday.'

'Oh, Gríma, you have no class.'

Gríma shrugged. He had been accused of worse things. 'So what happened? You begged the Valar to give the Maiar birthdays so that you could have dances and fireworks and burning pastries like everyone else?'

'Something along those lines,' Radagast said. 'Saruman wasn't pleased. He said he had no interest in having everyone dance around him in a circle and sing and clap and shout his name. But Gandalf went along with it well enough. I think he liked the fireworks aspect—it gave him some extra chances to show off—and the Blue Wizards were pleased with the idea, although I don't remember their birthdays. I'm not sure we ever knew them, seeing as how they don't really—'

'—come into these tales, yes, I've gathered that.'

'—and Saruman didn't even _want _to pick a birthday, because he thought it was a preposterous idea—his words, not mine. So the eighth of Quellë is the date _I _chose for him. I can't believe I forgot—you wouldn't believe the things that slip your mind when you've existed since the beginning of time. But he would never let us celebrate his birthday. Every year he hoped we would forget it, until eventually we did. He doesn't like being reminded of how old he is, and he _especially _doesn't like celebrations—or at least he says he doesn't.

'But how could he know, Gríma?'

'Know what?' Gríma growled. Saruman had long ago taught Gríma the fine art of ignoring Radagast when he got off on one of his tangents.

'How could he _know _that he doesn't like birthday celebrations when he's never _had _one?' Radagast explained, his eyes shining with a brand-new idea. 'Maybe, Gríma, just maybe, if we give him a really good party, and invite all his friends, and make all his favourite things to eat, and a huge cake, and plenty of dancing and music—maybe _then _he will finally enjoy his birthday! And he won't have to dread it every year! Do you think it is possible? Will you help me, Gríma?'

Gríma frowned as he pondered this. He himself was not thrilled about the idea of celebrations and merry-making and all the rest of it. He could sympathize with Saruman's distaste for such things. But then, Gríma reminded himself, it was always great fun to upset Saruman, and he was quite certain that a party would do the trick. _Especially_ (and here Gríma had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together with glee; it was a bad habit he had picked up during his years of being evil) if it was a _surprise _party. With people jumping out at Saruman, and shouting joyous things, and blowing noisemakers in his face, and generally making fools of themselves. Oh, yes, this would be a _wonderful _idea. _I haven't had any fun lately, _thought Gríma to himself. _Not since Gollum broke Saruman's collection of Dwarf-made teapots, anyway._

'Gríma, are you listening to me?'

'Yes,' Gríma said solemnly, struggling to keep a straight face. 'Yes, of _course _I will help you, Radagast. I think it's an _excellent _idea.'

Radagast looked at him sceptically. 'You do?'

'Oh definitely.'

'And you're going to…help me? Willingly?'

'Oh, of c—' Gríma caught himself. He squinted balefully at Radagast and forced himself to return to his customary slouching posture. 'I suppose,' he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'It isn't as though I have anything _better _to do, anyway.'

Radagast seemed satisfied with that. 'Oh, Gríma, don't be such a sourpuss! It'll be wonderful, exactly what Saruman needs! I'm _sure _the only reason he's down is because he thinks everyone's going to forget his birthday again, just like every year, and we can prove him wrong!'

'Sure. Whatever.'

'So,' Radagast said briskly, 'there will be the matter of figuring out exactly how old Saruman is.'

'Why?'

'For the _candles, _Gríma.'

'Right. The candles. Of course.'

'This will not be an easy calculation.'

Gríma yawned.

'Saruman has certainly been around throughout the entire Second and Third Ages,' Radagast continued, oblivious to Gríma's boredom. 'So that's about six thousand four hundred and sixty-one years right there. But no one really knows how long the First Age is, because all the different tribes of Elves disagree on when they started counting…'

'Couldn't we just count from when you Wizards arrived in Middle-Earth?' Gríma objected, glancing over Radagast's shoulder at the ebony grandfather clock ticking menacingly in the corner. He had a feeling that Saruman would be bellowing for his dinner soon if Gríma didn't hurry down to the kitchen shortly. _Then again, _he reasoned, _perhaps Saruman in his present state wouldn't bellow. Maybe he would only ask about it in a sarcastic sort of way. Or maybe he would even just clear his throat loudly and tap his fork against his empty dinner plate. _Gríma sighed in contentment. Whatever Radagast might say, Gríma found the current version of Saruman greatly preferable to the snarling, sinister one.

'…would put all the Wizards at the same age, and I happen to think Saruman, as the eldest, might find that insulting. Don't you agree?'

Gríma nodded too late, but Radagast didn't seem to notice. 'So I think we should round off at a nice ten thousand. He's immortal anyway, so there's really no way of knowing for sure, and if we just assume that the First Age was about the same length as the other two…because, in any case, I don't know how to make an infinite number of candles appear on a cake…perhaps Gandalf would have an idea…'

'Ten thousand candles?' Gríma repeated, finally tuning in to what Radagast was talking about. 'Are you joking?'

'It needs to be perfect, Gríma. Saruman is not the sort of man—'

'—Wizard—'

'—right—to be satisfied with a few _symbolic _candles on his birthday cake.'

'Who in the name of Morgoth is going to eat all this cake?'

'Well,' Radagast said hesitantly, pulling out a tablet of paper and dipping a quill in ink. 'That brings us to the matter of the guest list. Can you—just off the top of your head—happen to think of anyone in Middle-earth who would not be averse to celebrating Saruman's birthday? I mean, given that he tried to take the Ring of Power and sell out all the Free Peoples of the world to Sauron?'

'And he also looked at filthy things in his Palantír,' Gríma recalled. 'Don't forget that. I know I certainly never will.'

'And then there was the incident with the Uruk-hai breeding…'

'Not to mention his attempted capture of those two halflings. That didn't go over well in the Shire.'

'Fangorn Forest will never be the same after Saruman, I don't think.'

'The Rohirrim may not want to come,' Gríma conceded. 'Especially not if I'm there.'

Radagast and Gríma stared together at the piece of parchment on which Radagast had written _GUEST LIST _in large, hopeful letters at the top of the page. They thought. The grandfather clock ticked. Crickets chirped. The sun began to go down. In the distance, Gríma thought he could hear the sound of a fork being tapped very passive-aggressively against a dinner plate.

'Let's move to the question of refreshments,' Radagast said at last. 'Leave the guest list for now.'

Gríma rubbed his eyes gratefully. 'Best idea you've had all day.'


	4. Glorfindel's Chosen Career

**Glorfindel's Chosen Career**

For the past few years, Glorfindel had been having something of a rough life. It had been rather unexpected; he had spent most of his existence as the seneschal at Imladris, seeing to the welcoming of guests and making sure that unwelcome visitors were kept entirely out. A battle every now and then had kept him occupied when things grew boring; Orcs were fun to fight (if a bit disgusting; their hair made Glorfindel shiver), as most of them had very little skill in weaponry and were quickly and easily dealt with.

And then he had been usurped. Totally. Without question. In retrospect, it should not have been a surprise; Glorfindel should have figured, when his duties started to become fewer and fewer, that something suspicious was going on. An unfamiliar, ladylike script began to appear in the guest books alongside his own bold strokes. Lord Elrond was having conferences with people Glorfindel had never heard of, at times and places that Glorfindel had certainly never arranged.

And then there was the day the Ring-bearer came to Imladris with the Nazgûl right behind him. Glorfindel had been ready for them. His helm was atop his golden locks, his chain mail protecting his ample chest. It would have been a glorious defence if only he had gotten to carry it out. But that was not to be. Just as he had mounted his horse and was leaving the stable, Arwen—_Arwen _bloody _Undómiel_—skipped out in front of him on her own mount, sword in hand.

'What in the name of Yavanna do you think you're doing?' Glorfindel had screamed after her as they fled down to the ford, Arwen leading, Glorfindel not far behind. 'What are you holding?! You don't even _have _a sword!'

Arwen's cheeky reply had been laced liberally with girlish laughter. 'I have one _now!_' she shrieked triumphantly as her horse put even greater distance between herself and Glorfindel. 'I've decided to call it Hadhafang! The sword I never had, Glorfindel! _How do you like me now!'_

Glorfindel had not liked her one bit—then, or ever—but Elrond's preference was clear. And so Glorfindel had sadly packed up his belongings one day, embarking on a new career where, perhaps, he would be more greatly appreciated. He had somehow become the official party-planner for all of Middle-earth. It had started with catering—that, he felt, was at least a little _dignified_—but the next thing he knew he had been arranging musical acts, and then decorations, and then there was the time when a Hobbit mother (quite a formidable matriarch) had demanded that he create _animals_ out of _balloons_ for her little girl's birthday party. And so Glorfindel had done it. It had been the point of no return, he realized now. It seemed inconceivable that an Elf who had fought in the famed Battle of Fornost and whose valour had once been praised in songs sung clear across the country could have come to this. _But it is what it is, _Glorfindel thought sadly to himself. And anyway, he was nearly as good at making balloon animals as he was at wielding a sword.

Nearly.

--

'Glorfindel's Glorious Celebrations!' Glorfindel sang out half-heartedly, banging with no small amount of antipathy on the front doors of Orthanc. 'No job is too small! We'll give it our—'

'Will you _shut up?_' hissed Gríma from behind him, leaping on the Elf's back and clapping one hand over his mouth to muffle his shouts of terror. 'He'll _hear you!'_

--

'So let me get this straight,' Glorfindel said.

Radagast beamed at him. Gríma scowled.

'You want me to arrange a surprise party for Saruman the White.'

'Many-Coloured,' Radagast corrected him.

'Ecru,' Gríma put in.

'Whatever. Saruman. _Saruman._'

'Yes, that's right.'

'A birthday party. A surprise birthday party.'

'Correct.'

'For Saruman the—for Saruman.'

Two heads nodded.

Glorfindel looked from Radagast's eager face to Gríma's venomous one. They didn't _look _mad. They didn't—well, all right, Radagast had always been a little off, but he spoke as though he were more or less in his right mind. 'Are you absolutely sure about this?'

'Oh, he _will _be so excited!' Radagast burst out. 'Just think of it, Glorfindel, it'll be his very first birthday party _ever_!'

'Why does that not surprise me?' Glorfindel said under his breath.

'We'll want the biggest, grandest cake you can imagine, Glorfindel. We calculated that it needs to have at least ten thousand candles, and maybe flowers around the edges—_real _ones, mind you, not those spun-sugar ones—and then music, of course, and plenty of dancing—'

'Dancing,' Glorfindel said to no one in particular. 'Dancing. Saruman. Dancing.' Gríma grinned up at him evilly. Glorfindel shuddered in response.

'—yes dancing, and then—we'll need you to design invitations, first of all, and we haven't a moment to lose on that one; they should go out tomorrow at the very latest. Flowers, I think, all around the tower—we were thinking of having it on the top of Orthanc, out in the open, as long as it doesn't rain; do you think it will?' Radagast waited with bated breath for Glorfindel's weather prediction.

'I don't suppose you'll be wanting any balloon animals,' Glorfindel said sarcastically.

'Oh, yes. Plenty,' Radagast breathed. 'Could you _do _that, Glorfindel? At least a balloon crown for Saruman? Ooh, ooh! Maybe in the shape of a _puppy!'_

Glorfindel raised his face to the heavens (or to where the heavens would have been, if they had not been blocked by a dreary black marble ceiling) and closed his eyes. Maybe _he _was the one going mad. This could not possibly be happening. He could not be sitting in front of two people who genuinely thought that Saruman the…_Whatever_…would be pleased by a surprise birthday party at which he would be induced to dance (with Eru knew whom), blow out ten thousand candles, and wear a puppy balloon animal crown. This had to be a joke. It simply had to be. But Radagast's excited smile did not waver.

'Invitations,' Glorfindel said weakly. 'Right. Do you have a guest list!'

'I'll go and get it!' Radagast jumped up and bustled out of the room, leaving Glorfindel alone with Gríma in shocked silence.

'Gríma…Wormtongue, is it?'

'Why do people always say that as though _Wormtongue _is my last name?' Gríma said to no one in particular. 'I'm sure it _isn't._'

'Gríma, then,' Glorfindel said urgently. 'I don't know Saruman very well. But I know him well enough to know he's going to _hate _this. I mean, _seriously. _He's going to have a _horrible _time. He's—' Glorfindel broke off as the evil grin on Gríma's face grew. 'He's going to be awfully embarrassed—and…and he'll probably try to choke Radagast with the puppy crown…and…'

'I know,' Gríma said with relish.

'Oh,' Glorfindel said. _'Oh.'_

Gríma leaned back in his morbid Orthanc chair and folded his arms across his chest, looking unusually pleased with himself. And Glorfindel thought of all the horrible things Saruman had done. It took quite a long time.

And then he thought of Saruman's ordinarily sinister face peering out from underneath a crown of bright pink balloon. He thought of all the denizens of Middle-earth parading through Saruman's home and gathering on the top of Saruman's tower and eating Saruman's gigantic immortal birthday cake. And he began to smile.

'So we understand each other.'

'Yes,' Glorfindel said. 'I think we do.'


	5. Mail Call at Orthanc

**Mail Call at Orthanc**

'We have more responses,' Gríma grunted, dumping the mail bag he had smuggled upstairs at Radagast's feet. Orthanc had not received much mail since Saruman's treachery became widely known in Middle-earth, so Gríma had been forced to wait for the letter carrier outside the outer gate in order to keep Saruman from noticing the surge in the number of letters he was receiving. Truth be told, messengers didn't enjoy coming to the front door of Orthanc, anyway. The few of them that tried generally ran away screaming when the front door was opened, dropping their parcels behind them. It was almost as though they had never seen a mace-wielding Uruk-hai before.

'Wonderful!' Radagast chirped, tipping the bag of envelopes onto his desk. 'Now let's—where is my letter opener, Gríma?'

'Bathroom.'

'Why is it there?'

'I was using it to pick my teeth,' Gríma muttered. 'And clean underneath my nails. And clear out my—'

'That will do,' Radagast sighed wearily, rubbing his forehead. 'We can discuss it later. Although I'm not entirely sure I want to know. Will you go fetch it? Please?'

Gríma scurried away, returning quickly with a letter opener that looked at least marginally clean. Radagast tried not to shudder as he took it and slit open the first envelope. 'Here's one from Gandalf. Let's see what he—ah—hmmm.'

'He said no?'

'Well, not _exactly_.'

'Can I see?'

Radagast handed over Gandalf's response. Gríma read aloud.

_Dear Radagast (I know you're behind this): _

_I have always had the utmost of respect for you, in spite of the fiasco with those Rohirric sheep last Forelithe, but this is the most absurd idea you have ever had in the many years in which I have had the honour of knowing you. It is my hope that you will eventually desist from your relations (the nature of which I have no desire to know) with Saruman the Many-Coloured and turn your considerable talents to pursuits that do not involve figuring out how to fit ten thousand candles onto a sheet cake. _

_By the way, your calculations are incorrect. It is eleven thousand six hundred and forty-three, or would be if the eighth of Quellë had any meaning whatsoever, which it does not, as you made it up. Nevertheless I greatly appreciate the cheese baskets you continue to send on my fabricated birthday, although in future I would ask you to send them to my post office box and not directly to Bag End. Meriadoc Brandybuck has a pernicious habit of 'sampling' the cheeses when I am away._

_ Yrs most sincerely_

_ GANDALF_

_ (the White; don't let_

_ you-know-who forget it)_

'Well,' Radagast sighed. 'That's that, I suppose.'

Gríma narrowed his eyes. '_What _Rohirric sheep?'

'It's really irrelevant to the situation at hand,' Radagast said dismissively, his ears going rather red. 'Let's carry on…'

'Does this have anything to do with all the fleece I found underneath your bed a few months ago?'

'A response from Thranduil,' Radagast said as if Gríma hadn't spoken. 'Perhaps he will join us…oh…' Radagast scanned the letter. 'Well. Dear me.'

'What does he say?'

'Seems he isn't pleased about Saruman encouraging Elladan and Elrohir's, erm, exploits. Regarding his son.'

'Legolas Sex Slave business still going strong, then?'

'I wouldn't know.'

'Sure you wouldn't.'

'Haldir…says no. Galadriel…"not on your life"; that's a shame. Aragorn and Arwen…too busy with the new baby…'

'Likely story.'

'Tom Bombadil's written a rhyming refusal!' Radagast said delightedly, holding an especially long letter up to the meagre light coming in through the narrow Orthanc windows. 'It looks like he couldn't find anything to rhyme with "heartless tyrant", though. Old Tom always _did _have a habit of writing himself into a corner.'

'Any others?'

'Peregrin Took invites Saruman to "bugger off"; Meriadoc Brandybuck says—oh, really now. That's very rude; I'm sure that wasn't necessary. Samwise Gamgee's written a very polite note of regret. Frodo Baggins says…well.'

'Yes?'

'He says he'd love to come but he doesn't have any more Rings of Power on him, and he can't think of anything else Saruman could possibly want for his birthday.'

Gríma's mouth twisted into what was very nearly a smile. Frodo had a point.

'Elrond, no; Gimli, definitely not; Faramir and Éowyn, no way in hell; no responses from the Ents or the Blue Wizards…' Radagast pushed the pile of rejection letters away impatiently. 'Gríma, I'm starting to get the feeling that we're the only ones who want Saruman to have a happy birthday.'

'I can't eat three thousand pieces of birthday cake,' Gríma protested.

'Something will have to be done about this,' Radagast said, beginning to pace again. 'Something…if only I knew what…there's only a few more days…' He took his pacing out into the hallway and began to head up the stairs. The best pacing territory in Orthanc was really right on top of the tower. Gandalf had told him as much.

Gríma frowned. It wasn't as though he really wanted Saruman to have a happy birthday, either. But he couldn't help thinking that the thoroughly obnoxious surprise they were planning would be significantly less annoying for Saruman if only he, Gríma, and Radagast, and perhaps some of the better-mannered Uruk-hai were in attendance. He was certain, from the tone of the refusals, that many of the people who had been invited would _also _be pleased to give Saruman a vexing birthday celebration. Perhaps they just weren't looking at it in the right way. Perhaps Gríma could encourage them to get in the right mindset about it. Glorfindel had certainly caught on quickly enough.

Gríma began to cackle to himself (evil minions are entitled to a spot of cackling every now and then, he firmly believed) as he pulled up a chair to Radagast's desk and hunted for a quill. It would have to be done quickly. The eighth of Quellë was only a few more days away.

And he was going to ask Gandalf about those Rohirric sheep, too. 'Although,' he said to himself, shuddering slightly, 'I'm not entirely sure I want to know.'


	6. Figwit Brings a Burst of Colour

**Figwit Brings a Burst of Colour Into Saruman's Life**

'We have a very special visitor today,' Glorfindel announced, striding confidently into Radagast's study, which had evolved into party-planning headquarters over the past week or so. 'He's coming to make sure that Saruman himself looks his very best for the celebration. Because it's a surprise party, Saruman won't have time to dress himself properly, so we're going to take care of that for him.'

Radagast's brow wrinkled. 'Dress him? Saruman's very particular about what he wears.'

'He wears the same thing every day,' Gríma growled.

'Well, yes. I know. Hence the particularity.'

'We just want to make sure that Saruman feels comfortable at his own party,' Glorfindel explained. 'So I've brought an exclusive dress-designer to make sure that happens. Melpomaen, if you please?'

A dark-haired, wild-eyed Elf nanced into the room after Glorfindel, tape measure in one hand and butterfly net in the other. He smiled winningly at Gríma and Radagast, who, in a rare moment of unity, groaned in protest. It was Figwit.

'No,' Radagast said decisively, standing up and heading for the door. 'Absolutely not, Glorfindel. No way.'

Figwit's lower lip began to tremble.

'Radagast,' Glorfindel scolded the Wizard, putting a reassuring arm around Figwit. 'You haven't even seen what Melpomaen can _do._'

'Glorfindel,' Radagast said, 'this party is for Saruman, not for me. And Saruman has always been very, very clear on his feelings about non-canon characters. I simply can't have one involved in the planning of this party, Glorfindel. It would be _wrong._'

'Saruman would never have to know,' Glorfindel protested.

'He is very perceptive, Glorfindel.'

'Oh, please. We've been planning his surprise party right under his nose for the past week, and all he's done is brood malevolently in his tower. He doesn't even know _I'm _here, for the love of Eru.'

Radagast folded his arms across his chest stubbornly, clearly unconvinced. Figwit was beginning to pout.

'Could it hurt to see what he has to offer?' Gríma suggested, trying to contain the mischief in his voice. He had just seen a few snatches of lurid colours peeking out of the bag Figwit had slung over his shoulder. 'After all, Radagast, maybe a new robe or two would cheer Saruman up.'

Radagast sighed. 'I suppose we could _look…_'

'Saruman _says _he is the Many-Coloured,' Gríma pressed, not about to lose this golden opportunity. 'And we may as well take him at his word when it comes to designing a special birthday robe for him.'

'I have many colours!' Figwit chirped, dumping the contents of his bag onto the dreary marble floor. He grinned from ear to ear. 'Neon yellow and forest green look _beautiful _together!'

Glorfindel and Gríma exchanged glances as they watched Radagast's face. It was true that Radagast didn't have much of a sense of fashion—at least judging from the fact that he'd gone around in the same old brown frock since the First Age—but would he notice what a truly terrible idea this was? Would he look at Figwit's neon colours and imagine Saruman's most likely reaction? Gríma spent a few happy moments picturing said reaction. Saruman's birthday party was going to be _such fun._

'We-ell,' Radagast said doubtfully. 'What exactly did you have in mind?'

Many hours, many smoke-rings, and two Elf-tantrums later, the four party planners were standing in front of Figwit's creation. Pale pink flowers adorned the shoulders of the robe while purple lightning bolts ran up the sides and back of the forest green robe. A neon yellow sash tied the robe in front. The cuffs of the sleeves were a brilliant blue. Silver sequins (Glorfindel's suggestion) encircled the collar.

'It is truly a work of art,' Glorfindel gushed.

'Really magnificent,' Gríma agreed. 'I must say.'

Radagast frowned, looking between the two of them. 'Are you serious?'

'Oh, yes,' said Glorfindel, who was getting better at maintaining a straight face. 'Just think of it, Radagast. Poor Saruman has had to languish in white garments all the ten thousand years of his life. Think of how pleased he will be with this new…er...'

'This new burst of colour,' Gríma put in. 'This new burst of colour that Figwit the Elf has brought into his life.'

'I suppose,' Radagast said uncertainly. 'I'm still a bit hesitant about having a non-canon Elf get involved. I mean, Figwit, no offence meant, but you are a _fake Elf. _Can you really design a real robe? Suppose the robe is fake and expendable, the way you are? Can you imagine Saruman putting on this beautiful birthday robe and then having it disappear in the middle of the celebration? Maybe even while he's dancing?'

'I think this whole thing is pretty non-canon, actually,' Figwit chirped, ignoring Gríma's and Glorfindel's cries of disgust. 'We already had Arwen with her fake sword in chapter four. And Saruman and Gríma are still alive. I'm sure this isn't what Tolkien would have wanted.'

Glorfindel, Gríma, and Radagast glanced at each other in confusion. 'Who?'

There was an extremely awkward pause.

'No one,' Figwit said at last. 'No one. Never mind.'


	7. Legolas Offers A Diversion

**Legolas Offers A Diversion**

'A…walk?' Saruman said, wide-eyed.

Legolas sighed. Saruman could be remarkably slow at times, considering that he was once one of the wisest beings in Middle-earth. Radagast and Gríma had told him to stall Saruman for an hour at least, in order to give all the guests (he still couldn't figure out how they had convinced everyone to come, especially as everyone _he _knew had declined the invitation right away) time to hurry up to the top of the tower while Saruman wasn't looking. That meant Legolas had to figure out what to talk about with Saruman for an entire hour. It was not an easy feat, even when including Saruman's lengthy ellipses in the calculation. 'Yes, Saruman. A walk. I thought it would be good for us to have a walk. Maybe get you out of the house—er, tower. For a little while.'

Saruman looked conflicted.

'It's a beautiful day,' Legolas coaxed him. 'Some fresh air would do you good.'

'Fresh…_air._' Saruman sniffed experimentally at the spring breeze and sneezed violently. 'I am not…quite…so sure about that.'

'And, Saruman, I have something _important _to tell you.' _Great, _Legolas groaned to himself. _What can I possibly come up with to tell him? _'And I simply can't tell you inside. So many people listening, you know. So many Uruk-hai who want nothing more than to learn all about your _sinister plans._'

This seemed to please Saruman, who smirked in a—well, yes—_sinister _sort of way. 'Well…_yes. _I can see why. I have…_many _plans, I assure you. All of them very…_very…_'

Legolas waited patiently.

'……'

The shadows shifted. The minutes ticked by.

'…………'

Legolas put his hair in cornrows and took them out again.

'……SINISTER.'

'Yes,' Legolas said in feigned admiration. 'I'm sure you do, Saruman. No one has more sinister plans than you do. I mean, really no one.'

'Hah!' Saruman barked in satisfaction. 'Very well…then. I will just inform…Radagast…of my brief…absence.'

As Saruman stepped back inside to find Radagast, Legolas buried his head in his hands and tried to think. What could he tell Saruman? He wasn't supposed to wish him a happy birthday, he knew that. Radagast had instructed everyone to pretend they didn't know. He supposed he could scold Saruman for the incident with the seven-pronged whip in Fangorn Forest. He didn't expect Saruman to apologize, but the Wizard might be happy to remember some of the ways his so-called sinister plans had gotten Legolas into hot water (or oil) in the past. Maybe he could ask Saruman's advice on nail care? Saruman's nails were always so lovely. He wondered who did them. It certainly couldn't be Gríma Wormtongue. Gríma's nails always looked like he had performed manicures on himself with a letter opener or something.

'Be back in a jiffy jingle, sugar-buns!' Legolas heard Radagast say in the distance.

'Do _not…_call me that…_ever again._' There was a slight commotion from within. 'Ow! And do _not…_tousle my _hair! _A Wizard's hair is not to be _tousled!' _Legolas grinned to himself.

Presently Saruman appeared in the doorway, his hair askew, looking significantly disgruntled. 'Let us…_go._'

'How's Radagast doing?' Legolas asked innocently.

'Well,' Saruman grunted, slamming the morbid Orthanc door behind him. _'Too _well, I shouldn't wonder.'


	8. The Moment They've All Been Waiting For

**The Moment They've All Been Waiting For**

"Step right this way!" Radagast squealed, ushering the hordes up the morbid Orthanc staircase. "Step right—careful there, Gimli, you're about to poke Frodo's eye out with your axe—slow _down, _Tom, no bouncing on the stairs! So wonderful to _see _you, Your Majesty! The baby is _beautiful! _And for the love of Manwë, people, will you please try to _keep it down! _Legolas could be returning with Saruman at _any moment!_"

Radagast was not following his own advice. His excited bellowing was echoing throughout the entire tower. Even the denser Uruk-hai were beginning to scratch their slime-covered heads and wonder what on earth could possibly be making more noise than they were. It was just that the Brown Wizard had been so _overcome _by Middle-earth's apparent change of heart regarding Saruman's birthday. Nearly everyone they had invited was there—even the ones who had sent in the most vitriolic letters declining the invitation. He was totally unable to explain it—_and some things are just like that, _he thought to himself as he stepped over a couple of Hobbit-lasses and underneath a baby Oliphaunt. _The same way I can't explain why Saruman has never taken to my terms of endearment, or why Gríma broke out cackling in glee when the guests began to arrive. Some things just don't bear pondering, that's all._

"Gandalf!" Radagast said in shock as the White Wizard (and Gandalf really _knew _how to be the White Wizard, Radagast thought in satisfaction; White, after all, was supposed to be a _good _colour) arrived at the top of the staircase, having been led in very enthusiastically by Gríma. "I never thought—! But you said…"

"I meant what I said," Gandalf said airily, gracing Radagast with his most benevolent smile as he removed his cloak and placed it in Radagast's outstretched arms. "But…" And here Gandalf's smile grew slightly—mischievous? Was it possible? "The letter from young Gríma did make me reconsider. It's all in how you look at these sorts of things. And you need not worry, Radagast. I won't breathe a word about the sheep."

"Gríma?" Radagast said in bewilderment to Gandalf's back as the Wizard began to ascend the staircase. "Wait!"

"There's no need to show me the way to the top of the tower," Gandalf called over his shoulder. "I've gotten to know it quite well, actually. But thank you for the consideration."

--

"And then," Saruman said to Legolas with relish, "there was the time…I…happened to _convince…_Lord Elrond…that the mayonnaise was actually…_clotted cream._"

Legolas stifled a yawn. He had been treated to a recitation (heavily punctuated with ellipses) of all the evil things Saruman had done over the past Age. It had begun with some exploits involving the forces of darkness and the end of the world, which—while not unfamiliar to Legolas—were still fairly exciting. But Saruman had now worked through all his memories of world domination and torture and pillage and had started instead to relive all the nasty things he had said to Galadriel at Council meetings, or off-colour looks he had given to Gandalf when Gandalf insisted on smoking in his general direction.

After he had got through all of those (and there were quite a few), Saruman had started on what passed, in his world, for practical jokes. Given that Saruman had virtually no sense of humour, they were not exactly side-splitting.

"Oh, how he spit out that mouthful of his pie, Legolas," Saruman said dramatically. "Lord Elrond…_loves…_clotted cream. It is one of his…great weaknesses. Now _I…_pride…myself…on not _having…_any weaknesses. Such things…can become obstacles…for those truly destined to become…_evil._"

"Uh-huh." _No weaknesses, eh? One Ring mean anything to you? Palantír much? _But Legolas did not say it. It was, after all, Saruman's birthday.

"And there was another time…when Radagast left his tea…on the kitchen table…"

"Right."

"Until it was…_stone cold. _Like…my _heart._"

"Sure."

"And then, right before he came back to check on it…" Saruman paused to make sure Legolas was still listening. "I _poured hot water _into the _tea. _So that it was _steaming _again. And he had…_no idea…_how it had happened!" Saruman laughed what he thought to be his most sinister laugh. "Morgoth's teeth!"

"Morgoth's teeth what?"

Saruman seemed unsure. "What about Morgoth's teeth?"

"You mentioned them."

"Oh." The Wizard cleared his throat. "I just…well, by way of saying…he has them. Morgoth, that is."

Legolas was just about to explode in frustration—or burst into tears of boredom, he wasn't sure which, although both options had their advantages—when he heard the unmistakable sound of Radagast's bird-whistle. _At last! _He glanced casually toward Orthanc and could see, from the distance, people moving around on top of the tower. It was time.

"Saruman," Legolas said suddenly. "Maybe—if you don't mind—you could show me the _exact teapot _with which you carried off this, er, hilarious prank. Do you think that would be possible?"

Saruman looked greatly surprised. "Oh! Do you…want to?"

"Yes. Very much. I have never wanted anything more."

"Oh! Well, then, I…suppose…we could……….."

"Okay," Legolas said firmly, seizing Saruman's arm and steering him back toward the tower. "Glad to hear it. Can't wait."

"Just one thing, Legolas…"

_"What?"_

"You referred to the prank as…hilarious…"

"Yes. Absolutely. Can hardly breathe for laughing. Let's go."

"But you must know, Legolas, that it was _not…_primarily…_hilarious. _What it _was, _Legolas…" Saruman paused for a very long time while Legolas worked at not spontaneously combusting all over him. "What it _was…_was…_sinister._"

"It is unquestionably the most sinister prank in the history of the world," Legolas agreed with Entish patience. "A more sinister prank has never been played."

"And never…_will _be, Legolas."

"You got it."

--

"They're heading back!" Radagast cried, squinting at the distant figures of the Wizard and the Elf from the top of Orthanc. "Places, people! Take your places! Glorfindel, be ready with that puppy crown! Lothlórien Elves, get ready to shoot the flaming arrows _up into the air—_away from the tower, and _certainly _away from Saruman—" Radagast glared at Haldir, who had made a muttered suggestion to the contrary. "Gandalf, please make sure that you're positioned so that you can stand _behind _Saruman when he comes up, so that you can put his special birthday robe on him."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said Gandalf calmly. He was holding the robe by the pink flowers on the shoulders. Gríma's eyes began to water as he looked at it.

"And, people, the word we're yelling is _Surprise!_"

"Surprise in the Common Speech?" Éomer wanted to know. "Or in Rohirric?"

Gríma threw up his hands in frustration. "Why would we yell it in Rohirric? Saruman doesn't even _know _that language!"

"Excuse me, is someone talking?" Éomer said, glaring at Gríma. "Perhaps a traitor? Or maybe a pervy shield-maiden fancier? I couldn't exactly hear properly."

"I think we should yell it in Quenya," Celeborn objected.

"You would," sneered the Sindarin-speaking Elves.

"You know," Samwise Gamgee piped up, "I'm not one to quarrel, mind you, but it seems to me that maybe we should sing a nice song instead. Something Elvish."

"Who's _we?_" snorted Arwen. "I've never heard _you _sing an Elvish song in my life!"

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but perhaps that's because you haven't been listening properly."

"ENOUGH!" Radagast roared. Legolas and Saruman had just entered the tower. "Common Speech, _Surprise!_, end of story. Come on, folks, this is the moment you've all been waiting for! Let's see some enthusiasm! I'll leap out first, and the rest of you can follow."

Radagast and Gríma crouched near the top of the staircase that led up to the tower. He could hear Legolas's voice floating up from below, very faintly, but beginning to grow closer: "…such a nice day…would like to see…_impressive _tower…_huge, _Saruman, really…"

"Ew," muttered Gríma.

"Shhh!"

And then it was time. Radagast could hear footsteps just beneath them. "I haven't come up here…since that insufferable…Gandalf the _Grey…_was here," Saruman was saying; Radagast closed his eyes and hoped against hope that Gandalf wouldn't hear. "Still, it does have…its advantages…I can have fair warning…if the Ents decide to…_attack _again, you know…"

Saruman emerged from the stairwell and spun around. Everyone leapt.

"SURPRISE!"

Radagast clapped his hands in glee. The Wizard was stunned. There were Elves, there were Men, there were Hobbits; a tall blond Elf holding (what on earth?) an odd crown shaped like…a _dog? _There were flaming arrows shooting into the air, and streamers, and noisemakers, and merrymaking on a scale he had never seen, nor ever hoped to see. _How could this have happened? _thought Saruman in terror. _They found out! My fake birthday, and they found out! The nerve! The audacity!_

And then there was Gandalf the _Grey! _Dressed in…_his…_colour! On…_his…_tower! How _dare _he! And he was holding a neon…_Thing…_it was purple, and blue, and yellow, and pink, and…he was coming _toward _Saruman…he was going to try to make him _wear that Thing._

Saruman took three firm steps back. "Denizens of Middle-earth!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, intending to order them all out. But Gandalf kept coming, and so Saruman kept retreating…

And fell.


	9. Next Year In Orthanc

**Next Year In Orthanc**

'You know,' Gandalf remarked, 'it's a bloody good thing I thought to invite Gwaihir to the birthday celebration.'

'Right,' Gríma mumbled.

'I mean, Saruman could have been dead by now.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Smashed to smithereens on the ground…or maybe hung on one of the hooks of the tower on his way down…' Gandalf chewed on the end of his pipe. 'Or maybe even impaled on his own spiky wheel just before hitting the ground. You think?'

'Oh don't go on about it,' growled Gríma. 'You're just making it worse.'

--

Together Gandalf and Gríma entered the morbid Orthanc bedchamber where Saruman lay supine on his black canopy bed, pretending to be unconscious. They were fairly sure he was pretending, at least. Gwaihir had made a wonderful catch, as usual, even supporting Saruman's head with one of his talons so that the effect of the whiplash would be limited. But Saruman liked to do things in his own dramatic way, and if he wanted to pretend to be unconscious on his birthday, Radagast was going to let him do it.

At that moment Radagast happened to be standing over Saruman, wringing his hands in a very appropriate bedside manner. 'Sweetie pie?' he would whisper from time to time. 'Turtle dove?' But no answer was forthcoming.

Suddenly, though, Gandalf saw Saruman's foot shift slightly beneath the covers. 'Radagast,' he said warningly.

'Sugar dumpling?'

'Radagast, I would step back now if I were—'

'Rascally old curmudgeon?'

'SILENCE!' Saruman's hand shot out from underneath the covers and fastened itself tightly around Radagast's throat. For once, Radagast was rendered speechless. _'You chose to invite the entire population of Middle-earth into MY tower on MY birthday and you thought for some reason that this would _PLEASE ME?'

Radagast attempted to respond, but without much success.

'Well, yes,' Gandalf volunteered. 'That's a decent summary of what happened. Nice of you to catch up so quickly.'

'SILENCE!' Saruman thundered again. 'How _dare _you, Gandalf the GREY, how _dare _you enter Orthanc again!'

'Once you didn't want to let me leave. Now you can't wait for me to go!'

Saruman ignored Gandalf and let go of Radagast and fell back against his pillows, closing his eyes. Then, very slowly, very feebly, he opened them again.

'Where…am…I?' he said in a very hoarse voice.

Gandalf snorted. 'Oh, for the love of—'

'You're in your bedchamber in Orthanc,' cooed Radagast, having regained jurisdiction over his throat. 'Your sinister bedchamber. And it's your birthday, Saruman. And you're surrounded by people who _love you._'

'Tolerate you,' amended Gríma.

'Came halfway across Middle-earth just to vex you,' admitted Gandalf. 'I suppose that's a way of saying we cared.'

'Gríma,' croaked Saruman.

Gríma scuttled to Saruman's bedside. 'Yes, master.'

'The lemon tart you made…week before last…'

'Yes?'

'It was…' Saruman coughed briefly. 'It was quite, er, passable.'

Gríma beamed. It was quite a sight. 'Really, master?'

'But you must _stop using sugar _from _my private store!' _Saruman ordered him harshly. 'Did it ever occur to you that I have that flown in from Harad by Eagle every Forelithe, Gríma? It is _expensive!'_

'I'm sorry, master,' Gríma whispered, although the grin on his face did not match his words. Praise from Saruman was very rare.

'It must have been quite a lemon tart,' Gandalf whispered to Radagast.

'It was,' Radagast whispered back. 'Better than Saruman could have made himself. But I never said that.'

'What are you hissing about, Bird-Tamer?' Saruman thundered.

'Nothing, honey bunch!'

Saruman closed his eyes wearily. 'Have I ever told you what an impossible simpleton you are, Radagast?'

'Almost every day,' Radagast said, smiling tearfully at Saruman. 'But oh, how I've missed hearing it over the past couple of weeks!'

'And a chucklehead,' Saruman remarked to the room at large. 'And also an imbecile. A _blibbering imbecile.'_

'Oh, Saruman,' Radagast sighed. 'I love you, too.'

Saruman contented himself with a fierce glare and a moment of silence. But this did not last long. Radagast and Gandalf and Gríma noticed, suddenly, that something was wrong. Saruman sat bolt upright in bed. He looked to his left and then to his right, and then all around the room. He stared at the staff in Gandalf's hand and the staff in Radagast's hand. Then he closed his eyes very tightly and thought…and thought…and _thought. _His eyes flew open at last. Each of his pupils danced with fire.

'LURTZ!'

The unfortunate Lurtz happened to lumber in at that very moment. 'Your tea, master,' he grunted out of one corner of his mouth.

'Where in the name of Morgoth is my STAFF?' hollered Saruman at the top of his lungs.

Lurtz backed away, hands outstretched as if to stay Saruman's anger. 'But, master…you said…I asked, last week, if—'

'WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING WITH MY STAFF?'

'I just wanted to borrow it, mate, I promise you…'

'WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS MY STAFF?'

'It's in my bedroom, I just—'

'IN YOUR _BEDROOM?!'_

Saruman took a huge lungful of air. Lurtz cringed. Gríma winced. Radagast grinned from ear to ear. He knew what was coming.

'YOU INSUFFERABLE FOOL OF AN URUK! As if it's not enough that I _bred you myself _and _keep you alive, _UNDER MY OWN ROOF, feeding you with MY OWN MAGGOTY BREAD, now you have to lay hands on the _last vestiges _of MY POWER! And keep it in YOUR ROOM! As if it were YOURS! It is MY sinister staff! It is MY sinister tower! _Mine! All……………MINE!'_

Saruman paused to take a breath as Radagast left the room sighing happily to himself. 'He's back to normal, Gríma,' he said. 'It worked! The birthday celebration worked! We should have one _every _year!'

'Next Quellë,' agreed Gríma. 'I'll mark his sinister calendar.'

_Fin._

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A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in a ridiculously long time. This was fun. I write mainly for Calaquende, because, much like Orlando Bloom, it's her birthday, or will be, shortly. But if you enjoyed this silly fic, please feel free to leave a review on your way out! If you liked this story, you will love Calaquende's fics. Please go read them. They are scrumptious.

Happy Birthday, Calaquende! Your birthday robe with pink flowers on the shoulders is on its way. Enjoy.


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